


Biting on a Rose

by dorking



Series: An Entertaining Diversion [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Relationship, M/M, Maybe a little dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorking/pseuds/dorking
Summary: Peter gets his cake and bites it too.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Series: An Entertaining Diversion [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869895
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Biting on a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> lovely song from Mother Mother

It's awkward with Peter Lukas - _Avatar of The Lonely, my boss, my bloody husband_ \- shadowing Martin around his crummy Stockwell flat. He doesn't bother flicking on the lights, ashamed but justified in the decision - _the sunset does provide enough to see for the time being_. Leaking puddles of city yellow flowing with hues of purple and blue pour in the windows, enough to obscure the dilapidation and dust. It spares Martin a modicum of pride. Furtively he glances behind him and sucks in a breath. The darkness of the apartment defines Peter's burly form with negative light. He’s all silhouette, save for a pair of shining blue eyes.

Peter insisted on paying for the place even when he had Martin move out. Naturally Martin was suspicious of his motives. _Consider it a security measure_ – Peter airily announced, waving a hand accompanied by his well-practiced smile. Martin could only muster a confused stare at the time, unable to find a plausible reason as to why Peter would bother; even accounting for Peter’s wealth. In truth Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that Peter's actions were indicative of some grander scheme. As though Peter was lying in wait to put him into play at the right moment. Keeping Martin close to the chest, so to speak. Still, any time the question wormed its way into Martin's mind and tickled the edges of this thoughts, he found himself tongue-tied if he tried to ask

_\- Why? Peter, why why why?_

_Perhaps some gestures are better left unexplained?_ \- Martin capitulated after mentally ripping the question to shreds. He could only guess with calculation after all. How unsatisfying. True, they may be married, but Peter was as elusive as the day they met.

Still cold. Still distant.

Martin navigates his apartment in rehearsed steps towards the bedroom, only breaking the dance to peek at Peter who is staring off into nothing - as if he isn't so close that he nearly bumps into him, as if Martin _can't_ feel how the static from Peter’s sweater is making all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

As though cobwebs are somehow captivating.

Martin empties his designer suitcase - _a parting gift from his spouse_ \- on the bed. A small cloud of dust plumes in the air, drifting idle in the last rays of sunlight. The smell of old Martin, a long-ago Martin, permeates the air.

"There," he proclaims without purpose. There is no finality in the action.

Peter attempts to appear occupied by surveying the corners of the apartment, searching for anything that isn't in front of him. He eventually responds with a vague shrug, offering nothing but an expression resembling an empty sheet of loose-leaf. Soft blue lines etched in his face, all untold narrative. Martin desperately wants to ask Peter why he's still here, why he bothered to chauffeur both of them out to Stockwell and see him off.

But Martin just sighs, exasperated, and heads to the kitchen with Peter in close pursuit. Arriving and attempting to take stock of the cupboards, Martin finds himself embarrassed again for some stupid reason. He knew it was pitiful. But still, his ancient groceries consisting of dented cans and freezer-burned ready-meals make him coil in repulsion.

"Oh...Check the fridge," Peter suggests with uncertainty in his voice, a softened command.

  
Martin can't help but grimace. He knows from experience that surprises from Peter are rewards he should seldom welcome. Still opening the fridge regardless of his misgivings, Martin discovers a small white box wrapped in red ribbon. Tugging the cooled strings up by the bow, he places it onto the counter. Martin fumbles - trying to stretch the plastic to his will. He soon concedes to the wrappings which seem to have no interest in breaking, and reaches for a dulled knife to slit them away without ceremony. Opening the box reveals a lavish cake. It's _black_ , decorated with a few fresh roses placed on the corners and embellished with a skilled cursive text reading-

  
_Peter & Martin_  
_Congratulations_

  
Martin swallows an incredulous scoff. Permitted, he would describe the confection as _erotic_ , if cakes could be. It's as lush and decadent looking as silk bedding. Martin's eyes flick to the door, finding Peter framed by the entry and uncharacteristically candid, clearing his throat "-you did say you wanted a cake," Peter explains.

Martin reassesses the writing and feels his brain short-circuit for half a second before he lets out a small laugh, "Uh...It's...just weird..." he blushes grateful, eyes lingering on the glossy cake. He inspects his distorted reflection, stretched rivers of colour painted by the sole source of light beaming in from behind Peter - who hasn't moved in from the doorway.

"Christ, Peter...it's almost like we're getting married in reverse, or something..." Martin revels in the absurdity of it all. Peter _hmms_ again stepping forward, tracing his thick fingers over the dusty counter top. His shoulders are tensed in an unusual way. Vulnerable, obviously guarded.

"Are you alright?" Martin asks when he notices, not so much out of concern for Peter but for himself. Martin knows the signs of a cornered animal by now, amplified their familiarity. Peter's body language reads as ready to attack, should Martin make the wrong move. The atmosphere is uncomfortable. Peter stiffens and Martin braces himself.

A blush blossoms on Peter's cheeks before he regains his composure "Oh, yes. Of course. I hope you're hungry," he replies with his signature false smile - all mouth and teeth with empty eyes. Martin is immensely relieved when Peter's face pales back to its waxy whiteness.

"I'll um...cut it up then...th-thank you, Peter, thanks," Martin looks away and opens the drawer closest to the sink to grab a butter knife, the most suitable utensil he has. Slicing into the cake reveals a dark chocolate sponge, thin marshmallow outlining its layers.

_Bitter and soft._

Martin exhales an ounce of emotion - _remorse_ , "God, it's...almost like..." he mutters to himself, serving the slices on mismatched plates grabbed from the cupboards. Martin forces a snicker to dispel the absurd train of reasoning.

"-Like I'm breaking up with you?" Peter finishes Martin's sentence, receiving a plate between his pale hands.

Martin freezes, mouth gaping with nothing to say. It’s true. Peter's long index swipes through the mirror glaze, soon shoved passed his lips so he can suck thoughtfully on the chocolate. He appears amused. With a soft exhale and his fork glinting, Peter breaks the dessert - inserting a small portion into his mouth, nursing on the metal after he's swallowed.

"If that were the case..." Peter trails off enigmatically, "Martin...my light...I'd be bringing you back to Moorland House proper."

"What does that mean?" Martin inquires, ignoring the pet name in an attempt to remain casual, despite how his own bite of cake is settling like lead in his gut. It tastes amazing, just not amazing enough to distract from that look of cruel delight masking Peter's face - _a smile that knows so much and supplies so little_ \- it makes Martin very afraid.

"There are secrets in this world best discovered firsthand, Martin," Peter responds, his voice leagues away with one of the roses now trapped between his thumb and index. He pops the flower into his mouth and crushes it to pieces, "They're perfectly edible, you know?" he says grinning at what could be Martin's bewilderment.

In reality Martin has been struck by the sudden image of rose-coloured blood pouring passed Peter's lips, flowing streams of thin veined petals. His stomach churns sickened with nerves, and he quickly decides to change the topic "Going back to the Institute, I won't be seeing you as much then?"

Peter's grin shifts a fraction, "That's right. I imagine you're relieved," he adds, swallowing another portion of cake.

A brief silence settles between them - Peter busied by pushing the rest of his dessert around, making a mess. Martin looking at his socks, his appetite lost.

"...I don't _hate_ you, you know," Martin replies eventually.

"Hah!" Peter's smile is lopsided as if Martin has told a very funny joke indeed, "...Oh," his eyebrows climb a step "Well, how do you feel then?"

Martin rolls the answer around his mouth like a marble, "...we're married," he murmurs.

"That's not an answer."

"You've certainly lied to me plenty, used me...but..." Martin scrunches his face. Pathetic desperation is a bitter medicine to taste - _but I don't have anyone else_ – "...I don't know. How do _you_ feel?"

Martin jumps when Peter's plate clatters on the counter - _wasn't even that loud, idiot_ \- and finds himself compelled to follow when Peter abruptly disappears into the living room, cake now abandoned in the kitchen. Peter stops and stands contemplative in front of the living room window, purple and orange in the polluted lights. Shadows play coy over his blue eyes and beard. The wind outside whistles as rain patters the glass.

"...mmm...well I…” Peter mutters to himself. He does not want to answer the question. Not at all.

Silence settles into the dust, the uneasy quiet fragile and dangerous. Martin hears Peter's breath becoming uneven, only adding to the ominous atmosphere. _It's too intimate_. Martin wasn't expecting to rouse such an intense reaction by deflecting his own answer. He wasn't expecting Peter to lose his composure. Martin averts his gaze, embarrassed, regretting that he didn't stay in the kitchen

"I feel...like..." and Peter's voice breaks, unused to expressing such human things "...I'm not quite ready to bring you home, if I'm going to be honest," he finishes quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Martin's fingers twitch into his palm. His arm moves without his permission, and he’s surprised when his hand clasps itself over Peter's fingers. For what feels like the first time, Peter laces their hands together and gives Martin a soft squeeze, attempting to dismiss any pity Martin may have for him. What kind of person should have to pity a monster?

But that's all they have. A union built on pity, desperation, and distance.

It's perfect.

"...sounds like you're trying to hurt yourself," Martin says, soft and careful.

"All the time, love," Peter chuckles, sliding his hand out of Martin's hold and grabbing him by the wrist, followed by a swift motion which tosses Martin none too gently against the window. The glass rattles in its frame and Martin lets out a squeak.

"I'm done talking," Peter growls brows knit tight, closing the gap between their mouths. His free hand cups Martin's cheek. Martin leans into the kiss, opening for Peter with a trained obedience. Peter licks in passed his teeth, and Martin feels a stickiness coating Peter’s mouth - _sugar_. The hand on his wrist shifts away, winding to the nape of his neck and pulling at his hair so Peter can kiss him deeper. Martin's eyes flutter shut and he lets out a soft moan that escapes into the room when Peter catches his breath.

"You'll give yourself to me, right?" Peter exhales, words spilling hot against Martin's pinkened lips. It hasn’t eluded Martin’s notice that Peter will use sex as a distraction from whatever he doesn’t want to deal with.

But Martin is the same.

"Yeah, yeah," Martin replies indulging his husband, and Peter takes no time in sewing their mouths back together, kissing away the worries brewing in Martin's brain. Peter begins tugging at Martin's shirt and belt, frantic in his attempt to strip him. Martin runs his hands up under Peter's sweater, smoothing them over his chest before he lifts the fabric over Peter's head, panting when they part. Once Peter is shirtless and Martin's button-up is gone, Peter grabs Martin by the shoulder and roughly turns his face to the window. Martin gasps when his chest hits the pane.

"Hands...put them on the window," Peter instructs, his own diving passed Martin's fly to massage the strained warmth inside. Martin follows his orders, hot palms placed flat while moisture collects on his skin. Stifling a moan and pressing his forehead to the cool glass, he feels Peter rutting his erection on his ass - trousers and pants crumpled around his ankles. Martin almost anticipates Peter's fingers forcing themselves on his tongue, and considers himself lucky for not immediately gagging. Drawing his cheeks in towards the digits, Martin laps and soaks Peter’s fingers wet - and they will need to pretty wet, if he’s going to fuck him without proper lubrication.

Peter releases his own cock after making sure Martin is fully hard, giving it a couple of generous strokes to coax a few beads of pre-come from his crown. Sliding out his dripping digits, he traces Martin’s hole. He teases small whimpers with every tentative touch. Peter is smiling when he sticks one finger inside. It’s familiar, warm and tight. Pushing a second finger into the muscle, Peter languidly works Martin open, leaning forward to breathe into his ear.

“I’ll miss this. Fucking your ass,” he admits, curling his fingers just right to make Martin mewl, “…eating it too,” he croons, “Perfect, perfect, perfect Martin.”

“…ah…So much for not talking,” Martin quips, despite his current state, cock strained against his stomach.

Peter laughs and dips down to tickle his beard over Martin’s neck, earning a sharp hiss when he bites into the flesh. It’s hard enough to draw blood. To Mark. Freckled skin breaks open with ease - a petal crushed by Peter’s gnashing teeth. Martin flinches violently, his face growing wet with tears and condensation. Peter slips in a third finger. He licks the wound.

Stretching Martin’s hole with practiced precision, Peter plants kisses on his shoulders and relishes Martin’s smell. It’s a combination of his own soap and Martin’s musk. He wants to remember it forever. Martin is choking on whimpers when Peter asks him what he’ll miss. Martin shifts his thoughts to look inward, having trouble concentrating on forming a coherent response. He shakes his head.

“Answer me, or would you like four fingers, Martin? Five perhaps?” Peter teases.

Martin whines “I can’t…no, please-“

“What will you miss?” Peter demands, his touch less gentle. Martin feels the fourth digit tracing closer to others inside him.

“…being useful.”

Peter rumbles a deep chuckle that vibrates up Martin’s back. “That’s right, Martin. But you’ll still be good for me, you’ll still be useful. Don’t worry,” Peter extracts his fingers causing Martin to shudder. Pushing the tip of his swollen cock into Martins’ wanting hole, Peter asks “You love when I make you useful. Don’t you Martin?” hiding the monumental restraint it takes to keep his hips from bucking into Martins warm body.

“Yes, yes,” Martin hates this. He hates the desperation welling in his gut so badly he’ll do whatever Peter wants him to do. Say whatever Peter wants to him to say. He is utterly sick with lust.

When Peter pushes the rest of his cock into Martin as a reward for his honesty, he lets out grateful groan. Martin fights the urge to fold into himself, his arms quivering as he takes Peter in. Peter wastes no time fucking Martin hard. The slapping sound of skin on skin mixes with noise of Martin’s hands searching for purchase as they slide up and down the window. Roughly gripping Martin by the hip in one hand, Peter reaches to pull at Martin's dripping cock with the other. Martin lets out a long low moan. Peter is hitting deeper inside him with each thrust – so close to his prostate that when the head of Peter’s cock brushes it in tangent with his working hand, Martin sobs shamelessly. Peter grins to himself, pleased with his achievement. The hand working Martin’s cock is causing him to clench around Peter, and Martin cannot stop making needier and needier cries. Simple music to Peter’s ears, and Martin does look good like this. Bent over with want and paled mauve in the dusk. Blood drying on his shoulder where Peter nipped him. Cock throbbing obedient in Peter’s hand. Some vague feeling aches in Peter’s chest, which he dismisses. His thrusts become erratic. He’s close. Guessing by Martin’s symphony of gasps and keens, he’s close too, but Peter asks anyway.

“Martin?”

Martin only responds by nodding his head, mouth open and panting. He looks a wreck - a dog. Peter jerks him faster and tugs Martin close. Their rhythm is brutal now; all focus placed on climaxing. Peter is sure Martin will be bruised by the morning. He imagines the blue edges of his bite hidden under Martin’s sweater come Monday – how he will belong to the Lonely soon. How Peter possesses Martin. Peter relishes the inevitable unknowing the Archivist must suffer. That Martin is _his_. _His husband_.

With a throaty groan Peter ejaculates hot inside of Martin, who’s own cum spurts in ropes onto the glass soon after. Peter drapes himself over Martin, kissing and sucking all over. Pulling out his softening cock Peter traces a hand fondly down Martin’s spine, who shivers now covered with gooseflesh. Finally settling his hand between Martin’s cheeks, Peter thumbs the spend making its way out of Martin's body, holding him near-tender as they grow cold together. Martin squirms but does not resist. He feels dizzy, as though he has been crying himself exhausted and breathless. 

“Promise me,” Peter catches the semen now dribbling down Martin’s thighs and scoops it back into Martin, who can’t help but whimper, “Promise that you’ll keep me inside of you for as long as you can.”

“…I promise,” Martin surrenders through a dry sob, blinking away droplets of sweat.

“Good lad.”

Looking up, Martin sees only himself reflected in the window.


End file.
